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Betsy Evans

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today I walked home looking at my phoneregularly, trying not to make it franticwaiting for something I remember but won't admittalking to mom for forty minutes to pass the timethirty minutes too much andnot interrupted by any dingsthen a few texts I'd been meaning to send >> sentthen an immediate reply? noa text from a Houston numberor was it San Antonio?a brief mystery anda swipe to the right andohoh!Steve's play.suddenly comforted by talking to a robot programmed by my landlord

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As a joke to myself, when I'm looking for a kitchen item or a scrap of paper art or some other memento from my previous life and home, I remember that I lost it in the divorce. I usually whisper this aloud to myself or, if I am with people, I smirk and toss my head back as if I am a beautiful, WASPy divorcee who has just finished a game of tennis. The tone is more "lost the beach house in Tulum" and less the truth: I lost the grapefruit spoon; I lost the collection of National Geographic maps; I lost the good nail clippers. When I told him my little joke with a ha ha half awkward laugh over lunch one day, he said dryly: That's what my mom calls it.

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The birch trees at Graylag have many eyes

I can only hear the spinning fan of my overworked hard drivethe feeling of smacking lips asI reach over to pull an invisible hair out of your mouthor swat at a fruit fly